


i wrote this at 5 am

by Anonymous



Category: Romeo And Juliet - Shakespeare
Genre: FUCK, Humiliation, ITS PISS, ITS PISS OKAY I HAVE A PISS KINK ITS A FIC ABOUT PISS, M/M, Omorashi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-03
Updated: 2018-04-03
Packaged: 2019-04-17 20:43:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 917
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14197356
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: somebody fuckin kill me





	i wrote this at 5 am

**Author's Note:**

> fuk final warning yall this is omorashi  
> the boy pees  
> UPDATE: somebody posted the tags of this on tumblr and i have been laughing my ass off over the responses... my favourites included: 'i'm not into it but i support you', 'i dont know what i was expecting the fandom for this to be but this was not it', several people accusing their friends of writing this fic and the friends all replying with equal amounts of hatered, and my personal favourite: 'this is just... a lot'.  
> love ya xx

There are probably worse ways to go.  
Swords long since discarded, they're fighting with words and fists now, nothing more. Mercutio had landed a blow on Tybalt's cheek that had drawn blood. Tybalt had caught his counterpart by the back of the shirt and kicked him to the floor. They weren't fighting anymore: they were dancing. Trouble is, whatever it was they were doing, it had been going on for a long time.  
The square is empty, has been for a while. Once they'd cast their swords to the ground and resorted to teasing one another like schoolboys, the crowd had dissipated entirely. Now, they circle each other, daring their opponent to make the next move. There's just one tiny issue.  
Tybalt has to pee. He never intended to start a dispute, he'd just been walking home, and then Mercutio and his damn pals just had to provoke him. Now, he's in far too deep, and he's too proud to back down.  
"You're despicable," his rival hisses.  
"Despicable, maybe, but at least I'm desirable too," Tybalt counters, smirking, still dripping bravado. Come to think of it, poor word choice. It's hot in Verona, every day but today especially. He's just trying not to die, does he have to be punished like this for it? The fountain in the square is starting to drive him insane.  
Mercutio laughs that hyena laugh. "Desirable? Ha! I'd rather sleep with a wet dog!"  
Wet. Tybalt swallows. He doesn't have to go that badly, he doesn't, he can wait, he's grown. He eyes his blade on the ground and wonders if it would really be so childish to try and stab Mercutio so he can run away and relieve himself. He takes a careful half-step forward and in one fell swoop reaches down and takes up his sword once more. The sudden movement was not kind on his bladder, though, and he realises now just how full it really is. He bites his lip and hopes Mercutio doesn't notice.  
His adversary has now taken up his own blade, and all at once they're fighting with swords again.  
"That's odd," Tybalt murmurs, "I've heard you'll bed just about anybody, wet dogs and men alike." Mercutio rises to that, scowling. Their swords clash noisily.  
"And the men and the dogs will give you glowing reports of my performance, thank you kindly, much less than can be said for the likes of yourself."  
Tybalt doesn't have the energy to reply to that one. All the sudden movements are wreaking havoc on his full bladder, and he humours that if Mercutio stabs him he might just spring a leak like a bucket with a hole. He's more concentrated on finishing this fight so he can rush off to some dark alley than he is on finishing this fight so he can say he won it. People are starting to gather around them, watching them fight, cheering them on. Some are shouting 'Tybalt', some 'Mercutio', some just yelling 'fight, fight, fight!'. Tybalt catches Mercutio in the arm with the tip of his sword and red blossoms forth beneath his shirt. The gathered crowd cheer. Tybalt feels satisfied: he'll need that seeing to, it looks nasty. Surely this is it, it means he's won.  
And, yes, Mercutio drops his sword in defeat! Victory, once again, belongs to the great prince of cats. There's no time to celebrate, though, he has to find somewhere to relieve himself or he's going to wet himself like a toddler.  
He doesn't look at his opponent as he sheaths his sword, then turns on his heel and makes to leave. The crowd have other ideas. People swarm him, asking him 'why' and 'how' and 'what'. As much as he tries to push through the crowd, it seems neverending, people coming from all angles, most not even coming at him. The urgency builds in him as he tries to move, pace ever slowing down. He's starting to get scared, frustrated. A small leak betrays his mask of composure. Shit, shit, shit.  
He's desperately trying to push past people now, and finally he breaks free of the throng. He wants so badly to run, but every step sends a sickening jolt to his swollen bladder and causes another short break in his control. There's a visible wet spot on the front of his trousers that he'll have time to be embarrassed about later. He knows he won't make it much longer. There's an alley just over there, if he can just get there in time. He's walking at what feels like a snail's pace, legs clamped together, but that won't cut it. He's going to have to bolt.  
Mentally, Tybalt counts down from three, and then starts to run.  
He gets maybe four steps before all his control breaks. Almost a whole day's worth of urine rushes from his body and he stops dead. Piss streams down his legs and pools at his feet, the liquid noticeably staining his pants. He lets out a choked noise, face going bright red. He doesn't have to look to know people are staring.  
He's utterly frozen, unable to move. It feels like eternities later that a slender pair of hands sneak onto his waist, dipping down to palm at his wet crotch. He shudders. An all too familiar voice whispers in his ear: "Maybe you are desirable after all. Wet dog? No, no, no. My little wet kitty."  
Maybe there are worse ways to go, but probably not.

**Author's Note:**

> AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA


End file.
